


Fear Nothing

by one_more_offbeat_anthem



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Dean/Cas Reverse Bang, First Kiss, First Time, Knight Castiel (Supernatural), Magical Bond, Prince Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-16
Updated: 2021-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-25 00:35:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30080784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/one_more_offbeat_anthem/pseuds/one_more_offbeat_anthem
Summary: Long ago, the kingdom of Eacruiniel lay under siege by the Thuterons. Only under the leadership of the brave knight Castiel did the army of Eacruiniel emerge victorious. The win was not without a cost, though: the savior of the kingdom was turned to stone and put into the tallest tower to serve as a reminder.Three centuries later, the Thuterons have invaded the kingdom once again, and Prince Dean of Eacruiniel is struggling to lead the army. After the death of one of their most prominent leaders, he escapes to the tower to talk to the statue that has heard so many of his grievances...and discovers something he didn't expect.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 8
Kudos: 83
Collections: Dean/Cas Reverse Bang 2021





	Fear Nothing

**Author's Note:**

> wow wow wow, y'all. this is my fic for the 2021 round of the deancas reverse bang and let me tell you......when I saw aceriee's art, I was instantly inspired, and this was SO fun to write. if you want to check out aceriee's art post, you can find it [here](https://missaceriee.tumblr.com/tagged/DCRB21fearnothing) or [here!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/30043650)
> 
> be sure to peruse the rest of the dcrb21 collection because all of the fics and art have been truly amazing!
> 
> if you want to see more from me for some reason, my Tumblr is [here!](https://one-more-offbeat-anthem.tumblr.com) :)
> 
> and a special shout-out to my betas, [phoenix](https://archiveofourown.org/users/phoenix_ascended) and [grace](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GraceRB) <3

_ Long ago, in the far-off land of Idracia, the kingdom of Eacruiniel lay under siege. For sixty days and sixty nights, the soldiers had battled long and weary, under the leadership of the king. But the enemy, the peoples of the kingdom of Thuteron, refused to give up the fight. They were led by a mighty sorcerer who possessed a bewitched spear that would poison any who were struck by it. Many citizens of Eacruiniel had fallen to that spear and its wielder. _

_ All hope was lost, until, in the eleventh hour, one brave knight rushed forward on his horse into the fray, ignoring the warning cries of his brethren behind him. He was struck by the sorcerer’s spear, but at the same time, he took to the sorcerer with his sword.  _

_ The sorcerer was defeated by his own pride and arrogance, as he believed that, with his spear, he could not be beaten. Once he perished, the whole of the army of Thuteron fell as well.  _

_ But the knight did not survive the attack. Rather, he fell from his horse and turned to stone. The sorcerer had died, so his magic could not kill the knight, but it left him immobile.  _

_ The king was grateful to the knight for his bravery in battle, and so they set up his stone body, now much like a statue, in the turret of the tallest tower in the castle. They took his sword and encased it in glass, and made him a stone sword, an exact replica, to hold. Inscribed on the pedestal that supported his fallen body were these words: _

**_Here stands Castiel, the bravest knight in all of Eacruiniel._ **

**_(Three hundred years later…)_ **

Prince Dean of Eacruiniel had had better days. In fact, he’d had better weeks, months, years…

The people of Thuteron were supposed to be a dream, defeated in battle by the knights of Eacuriniel, leaving only stories of chivalry and magic to tell children . 

Alas, the days when the citizens of that far-off kingdom left the people of his homeland alone had passed, taking his mother and brother with them. Queen Mary and the young Prince Samuel had been whisked away to the mountains as soon as the threat from Thuteron had become apparent once more, leaving only Dean and his father, the king, to lead. 

It had been a grueling war. 

While they had allies to the west, the resources of those lands were limited, and they were loath to send over soldiers, horses, or supplies. It had taken some convincing to get any form of help. Behind closed doors, many whispered that the greatness of the kingdom of Eacruiniel had come to an end. Some believed it had come to an end centuries ago, when the hero of all stories about the Great War, the knight Castiel, had defeated the leader of Thuteron in battle. 

Dean had heard much about this  _ Castiel  _ over the years, of his supposed bravery and chivalry (although none were alive but magic folk who had actually met him). He had seen the stone statue that was once the knight’s body in the turret—it was a rite of passage for all princes to be taken up to the tower on the dawn of their sixteenth birthday. As heirs to the throne, it was supposed to teach them something about the leadership skills they ought to possess.

Dean was twenty-four now, first in line to the throne, but he doubted that there would still be a throne by the end of this war. 

King John was his father, true, and beloved by the people, but he was also prone to fits of rage. Dean was too often at the receiving end of them. He spent much of his time keeping Sam ( _ Samuel,  _ his father would say,  _ his name is Samuel, Dean. “Sam” is not a suitable name for a prince. _ ) out of harm’s way.

At least Sam and his mother were in the mountains. Sam had not yet reached his sixteenth birthday, so by law he could not join the battle, but he had whined about it the whole day leading up to his departure with many of the other women and children of Eacruiniel. Dean had nearly boxed his ears, but then he remembered that, if this battle went poorly, he might never see his little brother again, so he had settled for a fierce hug. 

“Father,” Dean said, pounding on the king’s chamber door, “The soldiers are expecting guidance. They want to know if we should force another attack.”

There was a grumbling from behind the door. 

“Sir,” Dean tried again, knocking harder, “There is no time, the Thuterons are regrouping as we speak—”  _ As I speak, really _ , “And—” He sighed and decided to just shove open the door. Chances were that his father had drunk too much wine the night before and was passed out. 

No, he was—

“ _ Oh my god! _ ” Dean shouted at the sight that greeted him.

“Get  _ out! _ ” John bellowed, and Dean didn’t hesitate. He slammed the door and pelted down the hall, clambered down the grand staircase, and promptly ran straight into one of the generals of the army.

“Prince Dean, why the haste?” the man asked. It was Robert, one of the most trusted knights, and a close friend of the king’s. While Dean had known Robert since he was a child and often trusted him with many secrets, he wondered if this one was a secret the other man already knew.

“My father, he—I caught him in bed with one of the maids.” The words tumbled out, unbidden, and Dean felt his face grow hot. 

“You-” Robert’s face became a mask of anger. “You must direct the army, since the king will not. I will go deal with him.”

“Robert, if he will not listen to me, I doubt he will listen to you.”

“Oh,” said Robert, his expression tightening, “Unlike you, I can hit him back.” And before Dean could get out another word of protest, the knight was stalking away, up the staircase.

This left Dean free to deal with more pressing matters than his father besmirching his marriage bed and the queen’s good name—Dean hadn’t been lying to his father. The Thuterons were regrouping, and rumor had it that there had been a skirmish in their camp, that they had acquired a new leader who was truly vicious. 

“It would be nice,” Dean muttered to himself, “if we could acquire a leader at all.” He supposed, as he headed to the city walls, that leader would have to be him for the time being, but he knew he wasn’t prepared. 

The army assembled was rag-tag and tired, with chinked armor and the crest of Eacruiniel (a lion, rearing its head and baring its jaws) smeared in blood. Their flags were ripped and tattered, and on one side of the wide courtyard, someone was re-shoeing horses.

In short, things did not look good. 

Dean had been born into a position of leadership, but he did not always consider himself to be a leader. He had been told he lacked confidence in his abilities, but with a father like the king, it was hard to have confidence. There was a lack of nurture in his upbringing that Dean had just put up with.

The battle wasn’t quite a fiasco, but it wasn’t excellent. The forces of Eacruiniel and Thuteron struck each other again, again, again, to no avail. Once more, Dean called for a retreat, and once more he called for a charge. Eventually, he called for a cease in battle, because he couldn’t find it in him to continue.

The sun was high above in the sky as Dean trudged back towards the castle, his armor clanking, wiping sweat and dirt off of his face. He watched as his kingdom’s soldiers refilled their water horns, cleaned their swords, and tended to their horses. There was not a smile to be found on any soul’s face—for this was not a smiling time. 

When Dean entered the castle, he was greeted by the sight of Robert and his father having an argument in the entry hall. Upon hearing Dean’s footsteps, Robert glanced over at him before saying to John, “You’re supposed to be his father.” Then he turned on his heel and took his leave.

In the wake of Robert storming out, John and Dean stared at each other. Dean did not have much, if any, love in his heart for his father, but still he sought the king’s guidance. 

“How was the battle?” John finally asked. He was only in his tunic and breeches-no armor. 

“Terrible. Our soldiers are demoralized. They need support.”

“Then you give them support.”

“You don’t think I’m trying? What the people need is not my words but the words of their leader. You are  _ supposed  _ to protect the people of Eacruiniel, not roll around with chambermaids while they fight in your stead!” Dean could feel his temper rising, with good reason.

“I am the king,” John thundered, “And you ought to show me some respect.” 

“How can I show respect to a man who commands none?” Dean replied. “Mother leaves for her safety, and you cannot keep her side of the bed empty. You besmirch her and your marriage.”

“What happens to my marriage is none of your business.”

“You are my  _ parents _ . This absolutely involves me.” 

“You should have knocked.”

“I did, Father!” Dean finally exploded. “I did, but you spend far too much of your time drunk or holding court when you should be concerned with the fate of our kingdom. Eacruiniel has suffered great losses, and I do not want to lose our homeland to the Thuterons.”

“You think I  _ do _ ?” 

“Well.” Dean crossed his arms. “You act like you do.” He spun on his heel and strode off. Perhaps mouthing off to his father, the once-mighty King John, was not the best idea, for Dean knew the power of John’s rage well, but he could not bring himself to care at that moment. Here they were, in the middle of war, and his father was occupied with being adulterous and hurtful. 

At least his mother, Mary, was not here to see this, although Dean supposed that if—no,  _ when  _ she and Sam could return, she would eventually find out. 

Dean had hardly had time to clean his sword and leathers when word arrived that... it appeared that the Thuterons were preparing another advance on the city’s fortified walls, John had deigned to join the knights, wearing his armor and his helmet with its massive plume. While it was tradition for royalty to ride into battle with such a helmet, Dean preferred not to. He liked to think of himself as one of Eacruiniel’s people, rather than above them.

John often seemed to think he was above everything, including reason. 

That was evident by the way Dean was handling the battle. He knew that the arm of Eacruiniel was exhausted, and so he directed them to protect the inside of the city. If they could keep the city safe, perhaps they could preserve their kingdom. John, on the other hand, wanted to charge out and face the Thuterons head-on. He was deaf to Dean’s complaints and gathered up a group of knights to follow him out of the city. John placed himself at the head of every charge, over and over, but never came closer to driving their opponents away.

Dean turned from the battle and towards the weak spots in the city’s walls, directing troops to guard cisterns and side gates. Eacruiniel would not fall because of some simple watering hole, not on his watch. 

Dean heard a great shout go up from the direction of the city’s main gate and swung his horse, which he had been riding around the inside of the city’s walled perimeter, back towards it. He crossed to the gate just in time to see one of the knights of Thuteron jam his sword into his father’s armpit. 

John fell from his horse, as if in slow motion, and the knight charged forward with his troops behind him. While Dean could not see his father’s body on the ground, he could imagine the sickening  _ crunch  _ and painful final moments that followed the trampling of hooves.

Dean stared at the spot where his father had been struck from his horse, frozen at first in abject horror, and then, without thinking, he found himself scrambling off of his own horse and running towards the castle. He ignored the shouts and sounds of war behind him—after that frozen second, the war had continued on, despite the fact that the king now lay dead in the center of it. 

Dean was not sure where he was going, just that his feet were carrying him there. He burst through a secret door in the side of the castle and ran down a corridor until he found the tightly spiraled staircase he was looking for. He ran up it, gradually slowing as breath left him. His chest heaved as he climbed the last steps, his chainmail and armor heavy.

He was in the room at the top of the highest tower of the castle, the room that contained what was left of Eacruiniel’s most valiant warrior. 

The statue stood tall, commanding, but not foreboding. Dean had always found that the fallen knight Castiel had a kind face. He had wondered what it looked like when it was not the pallid grey of stone, but he knew it was something he would never know. 

Dean had been taught to light candles and incense when he visited the room in the uppermost tower, as a sign of respect to the memory of Eacruiniel’s savior. The flickering of the flames lit up the room with a solemn glow, the incense thick and cloying.

Dean put his head in his hands, running his fingers through his tawny hair. There was no hope. The king, his father, was dead, and Dean knew that he was not enough of a leader to bring them to victory.

Eacruiniel was lost.

His attention turned to Castiel’s sword in its glass case, gleaming. Dean placed his hand atop the case, staring down at the sword, gazing down at the hilt, inlaid with blue stone, and the sharp silver edge. It looked heavy, and not for the first time did Dean wonder what it would feel like to heft the sword in his hand. It seemed like the blade of a true warrior, nothing like the puny thing Dean had in his sheath. 

Dean knelt in front of the case and unbuckled his sheath before gently lifting the glass. He had seen no one do this before, he had no idea if it was even allowed, but the king was dead, so who was going to tell him not to? 

He ran his hand down the now-freed blade, noting how it was still sharp after centuries within the case. Before he could stop himself, reconsider, he had picked up the sword by its hilt and was holding it in his lap. 

It was the perfect weight, and part of Dean felt like swinging it around experimentally. He didn’t, though, settling for hefting it as he had desired and admiring the way its weight felt. 

There was a creaking noise behind him, and Dean whipped around to see fragments of stone falling to the floor. He brought his gaze up and suddenly met a pair of bright, clear blue eyes, which were blinking at him slowly. Dean yelped and sprang backwards. 

The statue of the knight Castiel had come to life. 

Dean watched as the formerly stony knight rolled his shoulders and shook out his legs before gazing down at his hands. 

“Oh my,” Castiel said, his voice slow and deep as if it had not been used for many years—which, of course, it hadn’t. 

“I’m-—” Dean began to set down the sword. “-—Sorry. I didn’t know that—”

“No, no,” Castiel said, “This makes sense, with the old magic.”

“Old magic?”

“Only one noble enough could hold my blade and cause me to awake. It has been—” Castiel stretched. “Many years.” His armor clattered as he did, and then he did the strangest thing—he  _ smiled  _ at Dean, as if he was not a statue who had just randomly come back to life. 

“I’m Dean,” Dean said.

“I know.” That smile persisted. “I have seen you come and visit, much like all the princes before you. You have seemed happier, the other times. What is troubling you?” Castiel gestured to his sword in Dean’s hand. “Why have you picked up my sword?”

“We—” Dean sighed. Where to even begin, when he was facing the same foe that Castiel had defeated all those years ago? “The kingdom of Eacruiniel has once again been invaded by the Thuterons, and the king—my father—was slain in battle. I fear…” Dean swallowed. “I fear that the kingdom may be lost.” He looked up at Castiel, tried not to cry in front of the (admittedly quite handsome) man who had just come out of the stone in front of him. “My father’s death leaves me in command, and I am not ready to lead. I am still...angry with him. He neglected his duties as ruler to have intimacies with a woman who was not my mother, and our last conversation prior to his death in battle was an argument.”

“It is alright to be saddened by his death,” Castiel said. “Although I have seen your father come to this room many times, and he has not always seemed to be the nicest of men.”

“He wasn’t.” Dean laughed bitterly. 

“And you are at a loss.”

“Yes.” Dean frowned at the sword, Castiel’s sword, although he knew that it was not the problem. “We are disorganized and their forces are gaining on us. We are without leadership—”

“Are you?” Castiel raised an eyebrow. 

“If you mean me…” Dean started, but a frown from Castiel cut him off.

“I speak of Robert, most trusted of your father. Is he still alive? Do you consider him trustworthy?”

“He was most trusted by my father for a good reason. My father may not have been the kindest man, but he had worthy friends. Robert is—was one such friend, and he has long been like a father or uncle to me.”

“Then perhaps his advice could prove useful. He is a knight, but he could command a battalion. You cannot do it all yourself, and you are aware of this.” Castiel spoke as if he could see into Dean’s soul, although it was not altogether unwelcome. Dean had long felt like no one understood him nor the stress that he often faced, but here was a person from another time who Dean had just met, just accidentally awoken, who understood him instantly. 

“I—yes, that seems like a good idea.” Dean tore his gaze away from Castiel and looked back down at the sword, tracing its hard edges and corners with his eyes. He imagined what it must have looked like in Castiel’s hands. 

“We will take the sword into battle, where we will defeat the Thuterons.” Castiel turned toward the staircase. 

“We  _ will _ ?” Dean stood up to follow him.

“You know what your problem is?” Castiel asked, his gaze penetrating. “You have no faith. Now come, Prince Dean, we have a war to win.” 

Dean was powerless but to follow Castiel out of the tower. 

At the foot of the stairs stood Robert, his arms crossed and an impenetrable expression on his face. 

“Your father is dead,” Robert said.

“I know.”

“I will not ask you to mourn him, Dean, because I know you cannot, but you must understand the position that it puts Eacruiniel in. The Thuterons have made a great victory today.”

“I understand. But I believe that there is still hope.” Dean gestured to Cas, who had stopped short next to him, his armor clanking. “This is Castiel.”

“This is—” Robert stared at Castiel, looking him up and down. “It is. How—”

“We can explain,” Castiel said, “But I would like some food while we do it. I have not eaten in three hundred years.” 

Dean couldn’t help but crack a grin at that, at Castiel’s blunt phrasing, despite the trouble the kingdom was in, and Robert sighed, shaking his head. “Let’s go to the prince’s chambers, then.”

Over a quick but fulfilling meal of bread, meats, and cheeses, Castiel told Robert the same thing he had told Dean in the tower. Robert kept glancing at Dean, as if to confirm that the story was true, and every time, Dean inclined his head slightly. He was perfectly willing to let Castiel do the talking. His deep voice had a pleasing lilt to it, the curve of his jaw stretching elegantly as he spoke. 

It was in this stupor that Robert said, “Dean. Dean.  _ Dean _ ,” and then shook him by the shoulder. 

“Huh?” Dean said eloquently.

“I wanted to know if you were paying attention to Castiel’s battle plan.”

“I, uh—” Dean swallowed, noticing that the knight’s eyes, piercing blue, like the lake Dean visited with his mother and brother during the summers before the war, were fixed on him. “Not entirely.”

Robert sighed the laborious sigh of someone who had put up with Dean for all twenty-four years of his life. “Castiel?”

“I was proposing that, rather than meeting Thuteron’s army head-on, as Robert was telling me has been the strategy for every battle thus far, we should attempt to flank them and use a head-on advance as a distraction.” 

“I—that’s an excellent idea,” Dean said.

“That is why I proposed it,” Castiel replied, and he was  _ smirking _ , the three-hundred-year-old man who was, until a few hours ago, a statue, was smirking at Dean, and Dean felt his mouth going dry.

This was something to try and figure out after the battle, or never, if Dean had his way. 

By some miracle, Dean's soldiers had managed to defend the castle and it was still in Eacruiniel’s hands by nightfall, but Dean set up rotations of guards anyways, in case the Thuterons wanted to attempt a nighttime attack. A group of scouts had already brought back his father’s body, and Dean found himself standing over it in the castle’s chapel until late in the night. John’s face was nearly unrecognizable, trampled and broken as it was. 

Robert was right—Dean could not necessarily mourn the death of John as his father, but perhaps he could mourn the death of John as his king. He knelt before the funeral pyre that would be burned tomorrow evening.

All was silent for many minutes, how many Dean did not know, until he heard footsteps, and not a gait he recognized. He opened his eyes and turned to see the figure of Castiel, now without his armor, standing behind him. 

“The king was a complicated man, I have heard,” Castiel said.

“You can say that again.” Dean sighed, stood up. “What are you still doing awake?”

“The same as you. Worrying.”

“Why are you worried? You’re the greatest knight the kingdom has ever known. The amount of songs and stories about you...Castiel, you’re legendary.”

“And just a person, who got lucky. I could have missed and the sorcerer could have lived, leaving all of this in rubble and this conversation in the dust of a future that would never come to be.” Castiel tilted his head. “Being worried doesn’t mean one is not brave. It means that they are both brave and wise.” 

“Huh.” Dean didn’t know what to say to that, so he looked Castiel up and down before saying, “Let’s go to bed.”

Morning dawned just as hot and stifling as the days before it, but Dean had a new vigor that he had not had before. He cast his gaze over the sleeping form of Castiel’s in the cot that had been brought into Dean’s chambers, studied the slow rise and fall of the other man’s chest, the disarray of his dark hair, before scrambling out of bed and shaking Castiel awake.

Castiel sat up, staring at him and blinking slowly. “Good morning, Dean,” he said, his voice gruff. 

“It’ll be better with breakfast.” Dean dragged Castiel out of bed and to the kitchens. 

The city was a hustle and bustle of activity and preparations. Dean found himself explaining the plan of attack to the troops, despite the fact that Castiel was the one who came up with it. 

Castiel himself was another thing.

The people adored him—a famed knight and hero, savior of Eacruiniel, in the flesh before them—and as Dean occasionally glanced away from his preparations for battle to make sure that Castiel was alright, he couldn’t help but smile at the way the knight put everyone at ease. Although he had only known Castiel for a handful of hours, he could already tell that, despite the legend of Castiel’s mighty sword, he was gentle in nature. 

Finally, it was time to get onto their horses and begin the skirmish. Dean was standing beside his steed, fiddling with his sword and sheath, when Castiel came up to him, holding his own sword, the fabled weapon in the glass case that Dean had picked up. 

“You should use this instead,” Castiel said, holding the blade out.

“It’s yours,” Dean said, looking at how the sapphire hilt shone in the sun.

“Not anymore. You are the one who picked it up and awakened me. It belongs to you now.” Castiel offered it again, and this time Dean took it. 

Once again, its weight was perfectly balanced in his hand, the sharp, silver edge glinting, and when Dean looked up at Castiel, there was a small smile playing on the other man’s lips.

“It suits you,” Castiel said, before turning to mount his horse. Dean followed suit. 

For a brief moment, Dean could imagine how Castiel must have looked in that storied battle centuries ago, charging the sorcerer who led the Thuterons, facing near-certain death. Things had been grim then, perhaps even more grim than they were at the present moment. 

While a helmet obscured the other man’s eyes, Dean was sure that Castiel’s fiery blue gaze was alight with energy as he rode next to Dean, his white horse matching pace with Dean’s dappled one easily. Dean felt a renewed sense of courage and hope he had not felt in many long months, since before the siege began. 

The offensive, direct charge, the distraction, was led by Robert and his battalion, while Dean led one flanking charge and another knight led the other. A nervous energy pooled in Dean’s gut as he rode his horse, hard, towards the unsuspecting Thuterons. The play might not work, or Dean could end up in the same way as John. 

Or they could be victorious. 

It was a flash of swords and spears and barrages of arrows, the battle was. For all of his years of training and times he had ridden into battle throughout this war, Dean was not prepared for the onslaught of Thuterons. While their troops were divided in their interests, they still fought viciously, and Dean could feel himself growing weary. 

A Thuteron with a blue plume on his helmet charged Dean, and he swung his sword wildly. It caught with his opponent’s sword, and the force nearly pulled him off of his horse. He swung dangerously off the side of the saddle, his steed still moving, and his sword grazed the ground. The fear came rushing back—this was the end. 

Dean braced himself to hit the ground, to fall off of a moving horse and avoid falling onto his sword, but the impact never came. Instead, a strong hand seized his arm, and he found himself being pulled up onto the back of another horse, behind—

“You should be more careful!” The rider shouted at him. 

Castiel.

Dean didn’t have much time for shock at being saved, though, because the Thuteron with the blue plume was back, and swinging his sword all the more at Castiel. All of a sudden, though, he drew up his horse, stopping short in front of Castiel and Dean.

“ _ You,”  _ The man said, “I know you. You are Castiel, knight of Eacruiniel. You are supposed to be dead.” 

Dean glanced down and noticed the spear strapped to the side of the man’s horse. 

_ Magic spear. Leader of the Thuterons. Castiel’s sacrifice in the final battle of the last war.  _

This was the sorcerer who had led their opponents all those years ago.

“So are you,” Castiel said, hefting his sword in one hand and the reins in the other. “Let’s try this again, shall we?” 

Castiel was focused on the sorcerer’s body, too focused—he didn’t notice the man’s hand dipping down to the spear, but Dean did. Before Dean was fully aware of what he was doing, he found himself jumping off of Castiel’s steed and seizing the sorcerer’s hand, dragging him off of his own horse and onto the ground. Dean flung himself on top of the man and yanked his helmet off. 

“Oh,” the sorcerer crowed, his eyes beady, his face pinched and unpleasant, “The young prince. You are powerless against me, for the only sword that can kill me is long gone.” 

Dean had an idea about what sword the sorcerer was talking about.

So Dean drove it into his neck. 

Everything seemed to slow around him as blood gushed from the wound and the sorcerer struggled underneath him, his eyes widening as he grappled with the blade in vain. When the sorcerer’s body finally went limp, Dean collapsed over him and then rolled over to see the Thuteron army retreating. He could not believe his eyes as he watched them ride off into the distance. He stared at the sword in his hand, Castiel’s sword, with its hilt of blue gemstone, and then pulled himself up to a standing position and extended it to him.

Castiel shook his head. “It was a gift. You keep those.” 

Dean frowned, and then looked down at himself, covered in the sorcerer’s blood, and then looked back up at Castiel.

The battle was over. 

Eacruiniel was saved. 

Three days later, Dean’s mother and brother returned from the mountains.

“Mother! Sam!” Dean ran towards them, across the great hall of the castle. The queen and the younger prince looked tired, their clothes a bit worse for wear due to their time in the mountains, but they were  _ alive,  _ and that was all that really mattered to Dean. They were alive, they were safe, they were protected. 

“Dean.” Queen Mary enveloped him into a hug, and Dean unintentionally sank into it, sagging into his mother’s arms, the weight of the past few months and the battles that had occurred therein seeping out of him. He had missed her more than he had cared to admit. 

She eventually released him, and Dean turned to Sam, who had somehow managed to get even taller in their time apart. “You need a haircut,” Dean said by way of greeting, before hugging his brother. 

Castiel hung back behind him, standing awkwardly. At least his armor wasn’t clanking—Dean had convinced him that he could wear a tunic like him. 

“Besides,” Dean had said, “Isn’t that armor three hundred years old?”

Castiel had frowned, but Dean was right. 

Speaking of Castiel.

“Mother, Sam, this is—come here, Castiel—this is—” 

But he had already given it away, and Mary gasped. “ _ The  _ Castiel?”

“I, uh, accidentally brought him back to life. He helped us win this war.”

“It is always a pleasure to fight for Eacruiniel,” Castiel said in his usual gravely voice before stepping forward and stooping in front of Mary. “Queen Mary, I presume?”

“Not to be the queen much longer,” Mary said. 

“What?” Dean said. “Mother, you are--”

“Choosing to abdicate. I understand that I could rule as queen, but I want to take a step back.” 

“I—” Dean swallowed. All this time, he had believed that his strong-willed, independent mother would take the throne herself and steer Eacruiniel towards greatness now that the Thuterons were gone for good. He had never considered himself on the throne, not until after her death.

But, as he knew, Mary was strong-willed, and he could not say no to her. 

“I will think about it,” Dean said. “For now, a banquet has been prepared.”

Dean did not have much of a choice in the matter. 

He was to be crowned king, because Mary said so. She had taken the news of her husband’s passing with a tight jaw, Dean had been told, and then soldiered on, because that was what his mother was wont to do.

There was a week of flurried preparations, of Dean being dragged around to appointments and meetings for things he didn’t particularly care about. Now he stood in his chambers, awaiting the coronation ceremony. He felt a bit peculiar, in such fancy clothes, but he was about to become king, so he supposed it was reasonable. 

“You look splendid,” Castiel said, jolting him out of his reverie, and Dean noticed a slight blush in the other man’s cheeks. Paired with his dark hair and blue eyes, it was quite becoming, but—

Dean shook his head. He was minutes away from becoming the king of Eacruiniel; he did not have time for these thoughts. 

Dean observed himself in the looking-glass. He normally didn’t care much for his appearance, with his freckle-marked skin and unusual green eyes, but he had to agree with Castiel’s assertion: the robes he was wearing, which were a deep forest green embroidered with gold, did suit him quite well. He was going to enjoy getting back into his tunic later, though. He would be much more comfortable. 

He and Castiel had become almost inseparable over the past days. Dean was unsure if that was due to the fact that Castiel did not know anyone else very well, or if there was just something drawing them together. Whatever it was, he didn’t mind it, or Castiel’s company, in the slightest. 

“You look worried,” Castiel said, tilting his head, a gesture Dean could see in the looking-glass. “Why?”

“This is a lot of responsibility,” Dean replied, swallowing. “I am not sure if I am ready.”

“I believe you are.”

“You’re biased,” Dean said, turning to face Castiel, who was once again in his armor, which was now polished to a shine, no longer covered in centuries of grime. “You’re my friend.”

“Indeed. But I am also honest.” Castiel was smiling at him now, a bright, clean thing, and Dean could not help but smile back. 

His life had changed, improved, since Castiel had entered it. Not only had they defeated the Thuterons, but he also finally had someone to talk to. Robert, his mother, Sam, these were all wonderful people who had known him his whole life—but Castiel was different, not just in his otherworldliness from being of a different time, but also just in the way he carried himself and approached problems. Castiel was kind and firm yet practical, and while he had spent most of his time since the war had ended following Dean around, he was independent, as if he were following Dean because of his own desires and not due to expectation or duty.

Dean wanted him around, if he was forced to admit it. There was some sort of feeling swirling inside of him, something he could not—or, more honestly, would not identify. He was terrified, in small ways, of that unearthliness. Insofar, there seemed to have been no adverse effects from being entombed in stone for centuries, but Dean was sure that there would be some, that Castiel would be snatched away from him. While he had only known the other man for a short period of time, he knew it would be unbearable to be parted from him. 

A gentle hand was laid on his shoulder, and gave it a slight squeeze. Dean glanced over to see that it was, in fact, Castiel’s hand, and that Castiel was now gazing at him with warm, open, unabashed kindness. 

“You will be wonderful,” Castiel said with complete sincerity in his tone. “Now, come, the people are waiting.”

**_(Three months later…)_ **

It had been another long day of meetings and an abbreviated sparring lesson and a tasting for a banquet next week, and Dean was doing what he discovered he liked best: enjoying Castiel’s company. 

Castiel had moved into the chambers adjacent to Dean’s, and it was altogether pleasant to spend hours in the evenings talking or reading or going out to Dean’s balcony and watching the stars. Despite his bluntness and odd nature (likely a remnant of being a statue for three centuries), Castiel was charming and charismatic. The entire castle was enamored with him, and Dean secretly greatly liked having Castiel to himself some of the time.

It was the end of one of those special, private evenings now—they had chatted about all manner of things, especially Sam, who Castiel was helping train in sword fighting, and then had fallen into a comfortable silence.

“I must leave soon,” Castiel eventually said, his voice soft and sad. Dean’s chambers were darkened at this late hour, with only the torchlight by the door offering any light. The flames flickering across Castiel’s face showed him frowning, appearing much older than the young knight truly was, his blue eyes no longer vibrant but dark and sad. 

“And go where?” Dean asked, trying to ignore the feeling of his heart thumping mightily in his chest. “We have defeated the Thuterons. There are no more threats to our land.”

Castiel’s sad gaze turned on him. “ _ Your  _ land. This has not been my land for over three hundred years...while I have not visibly aged a day, I saw everything that passed through my tower, and soon I will perish. I can feel myself weakening...I am from another time, my king. I cannot stay in this one.”

Dean had no response, only his chest now squeezing around his heart as he searched Castiel’s face for answers. How could this be happening to him? 

“For what it’s worth,” Castiel said gently, “You were always my favorite of the people I saw. And I expected only to watch you grow old and die like the others, not to actually meet you. To become your friend.” 

He stood up to leave, but Dean’s hands had other ideas, impulsively grabbing Castiel by the front of his tunic and pulling him back down, his face now inches from Dean’s. “You can’t leave,” Dean said, his voice an unexpected whisper. “You can’t leave me.”

“I don’t have a choice.”

“Then let me do this before you leave.” Dean swallowed his fear and pressed his lips to Castiel’s. It was a gentle kiss, a question, a last shred of hope—

Castiel kissed him back, seizing his shoulders, and they fell backwards onto Dean’s bed, the knight’s body surprisingly heavy over his own. 

It was all too great for Dean to believe, that he had felt this way and that Castiel felt the same. When Castiel pulled away, his eyes were blown wide, with shock, lust, or love, Dean wasn’t sure.

He found that he did not care, so long as those eyes were looking at him. 

Kissing Castiel was addictive, and Dean found himself placing his lips anywhere he could. The tunic and linen pants he was wearing, that they were both wearing, were becoming far too restrictive, and when Castiel nosed under Dean’s jaw to his neck, Dean decided to take initiative in removing them.

The proximity was too immense to bear, naked skin against naked skin, and pressure built in Dean’s groin as Castiel pressed him into the mattress. It was too much, overwhelming, and when Castiel slipped a hand between them, the friction caused Dean to come undone. 

Dean had been wanting and waiting, and now he could bring his hands down to grip Castiel’s hips, to pull him closer, closer…

It was not close enough. 

They remained this way, pushing against each other, breathing into each other’s mouths, until, much too soon and not soon enough, it was over in a long arc of pleasure. Castiel’s lips remained, though, soft, gentle, his arms gripping Dean, holding him tight, and it was all Dean wanted, all he had been needing, and more.

Dean awoke the next morning to sun streaming in through his chamber’s windows and a warm form next to him—Castiel.

Dean was suddenly reminded of the previous night’s activities, of Castiel’s lips against him, of his hands and body, warm and pliant—of realizing what that growing feeling for his friend had been. What it truly was. 

_ Love.  _

Dean had never been more sure of anything in his life—he was in love with Castiel. He had never truly heard of a love like this—only in whispered stories and back halls—but it felt full and pure and true. 

It was unusual but not unwelcome to see the noble knight like this—recently debauched, with his hair wild, but also  _ peaceful.  _ Castiel’s brow nearly always seemed furrowed with whatever worry was overcoming him at the time, and this had been especially true last night, when worries over wasting away marred his beautiful features.

Castiel was beautiful, wasn’t he, made up of both soft curves and smooth edges? Dean had felt those curves with his own hands, drawn them down Castiel’s stomach to where they met his hip bones and dipped down. The skin there had been warm, the touches made Castiel pliant. For a brief moment Dean wondered if he had ruined the most noble knight, savior of Eacruiniel, but if that were true, Castiel would have ruined  _ him  _ as well _ ,  _ and he did not feel ruined. 

He felt awake, alive. Dean drew a finger down the curve of Castiel’s cheek and then watched his eyelids flutter open a few moments later. 

“Good morning,” Castiel said, after much staring at Dean. “I did not intend to sleep here.”

“I do not mind that you did.” Dean cupped Castiel’s cheek in his hand, dipped his head down to kiss the other man, gently, softly. “Did you sleep well?”

“I did.” Castiel was staring at him, almost in wonder.

“Is something wrong?” Dean asked. 

“Quite the opposite.” Castiel stretched. “I-—yesterday, and for weeks, I had felt an awful ache in my bones, as if they were breaking apart. That was what I spoke to you of, when I said that I believed I was dying. But today...the ache is gone. In fact, the ache went away last night.”

“Do you think—” Dean did not let himself dare believe the possibility, that he might have had a hand in the salvation of Castiel, supposedly the brightest and best of the stars of Eacruiniel. Dean may have been the king, but Castiel—Castiel was something else. 

“I do. I do.” Castiel was smiling now, a pleasant tilt upwards to his lips. “I believe I will be able to stay.”

They stayed in bed for a long while after that, trading soft kisses under Dean’s covers. It was warm in the bed, secret and safe, but eventually Dean’s hunger got the best of him, and they dressed and went to the great hall for breakfast. Castiel excused himself early, and Dean later found him on a parapet, staring out at the land below them, a gentle breeze ruffling his tunic.

“Are you alright?” Dean asked. 

Castiel turned and took his hand, interlacing their fingers. “Yes.” 

They gazed out on their kingdom together. 

_ They tell now a story of ages past, of the noble King Dean who led Eacruiniel when all hope seemed lost. The Thuterons were defeated once and for all—no more did they torment the land of Idracia with their spells and violence.  _

_ Of course, none can forget the contributions of the valiant knight Castiel, who helped lead Eacruiniel to victory not once, but twice. Only King Dean was chivalrous enough to wield the knight’s sword. After the battle, they remained close for all their days. Some insisted they were just friends, close confidants, but others knew the truth—for the king never took a queen, instead naming succession to his brother, and then his brother’s son, in turn. They carried each other close to their hearts, always together even when they were apart. _

_ When the king and his knight passed, within only a few days of each other, they were buried together in the royal crypt, at the insistence of the new king, Samuel. New statues were erected where Castiel’s stone body once stood, the sword put back in its case for the next person who was brave and pure of heart to wield for Eacruiniel when the time came. The new inscription read: _

**_For those who possess love, fear nothing._ **


End file.
